


The deaths we don't measure

by swaddledog



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Gen, Humor, aka the only holiday in middle earth, because tolkien can not drop a line like that and not expect people to write things like this, faramir as master of beasts and men, mettare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 02:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaddledog/pseuds/swaddledog
Summary: Boromir discovers that Faramir is sheltering an injured wild animal in the Citadel. It disrupts an Important Political Dinner, leading to a difficult discussion between the brothers about the things war takes from people.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	The deaths we don't measure

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 98% of this one(1) year ago and then stubbornly refused to write an ending, any ending at all, and it has hung over my head ever since. I want to jettison this piece of crap into space like the alien from alien. please enjoy.
> 
> Things you'll have to suspend disbelief about:  
> -cheetahs are used as couriers by Haradrim  
> -a cheetah having its bones set by a guy who probably knows like basic first aid but definitely not any veterinary medicine  
> -said injured cheetah presumably being returned to the wild even though an injury like that would probably mark them for death pretty quick  
> -none of the nobles have a name oops
> 
> and the phrase Faramir says in 'Haradric' is Arabic for I don't speak Arabic.

He opened the door to his brother's rooms and was a bit startled to be met with a quick, "No!" Typically they'd hardly treated each other's rooms with any kind of distinction, coming and going as they pleased. Neither of them were terribly private about their spaces, so Boromir was curious about the sudden departure from that. He heard rustling in the bedroom. Bodies moving.   
  
So how could he not immediately ask, "Have you got a woman in there?"  
  
Faramir muttered something that Boromir couldn't hear, but the tone was obviously irritated.  
  
Then, something moved, and it moved _fast._ Boromir hardly had time to process it before it nearly slammed into him at full speed. There was a skittering sound of claws on stone, and the thud of Faramir's footfalls as he chased after it. And then the thing smacked into the wall and Boromir could see it clearly for the first time.   
  
It was a wild cat. A strange one he'd never seen before. Much larger than the lynxes that wandered the woods here. Its pelt was quite beautiful, golden with a smattering of black spots. Its deep chest heaved as it panted for breath, and it glanced quickly between himself and his brother, gold rings around dialeted pupils. Black markings lined its face like tear tracks. It made a discontented noise in its chest as it looked at him, which did little to set him at ease.   
  
He would have looked at Faramir, but he didn't trust this creature to not suddenly dash at him and bite. "What did you bring home this time?" he asked instead. It wasn't uncommon for Faramir to have some injured creature in his room. Typically it was a bird with a damaged wing, a stray city cat with a hurt paw, a neglected dog, something _manageable._ Not a wild, foreign animal.   
  
"I think I have heard the Haradrim call them _duma_."  
  
"You're an idiot, Faramir."  
  
"Its leg was snared and broken," Faramir argued. "Had I not helped it, it would be at the mercy of the weather, buried beneath the snow to freeze to death. Would you enjoy such an end?"  
  
"No, but I am not an animal." He realized the snipe he'd just set himself up for and held up a hand, "Don't say it. Whatever it was going to be, I've already thought of a better one."  
  
Faramir smirked. "Highly doubtful."  
  
"You can't keep this thing here."  
  
"This thing has a name."  
  
"Of course it does," Boromir said with a sigh, fingers gliding through his hair to brush it back from his face.   
  
"If it is of any relief to you, I am not the one who named it. Mablung did. Fermuig."  
  
"Fast cat? Really?"  
  
"I didn't say it was a good name. But it is accurate." Faramir stepped slowly towards the _duma_ , and its eyes snapped to him immediately. Boromir's chest tightened with fear. It wasn't an Orc blade that would kill his brother one day. It was his own damned compassion. "The Haradrim use them to send messages. We have seen them rarely in Ithilien. They tear across the landscape faster than any creature I've ever seen."  
  
That got Boromir's interest as a captain in wartime, and he asked, "Did this one carry any such message?"  
  
Faramir nodded as he crouched to move closer to the creature. "I'm working on it now. Their script is so difficult to read and the few dictionaries we have of their tongue are old and faded."  
  
Boromir agreed and thanked Eru for blessing Gondor with his brother, because only he could be patient and perceptive enough to decode the strange language of the Haradrim. "You'll let me know when-Oh, do you mean to kill me, Faramir? Because that is what you are doing!" Faramir was feeding the thing by hand! As though he, an archer, did not appreciate the necessity of having fingers!  
  
"You worry too much."  
  
"One of us must!"  
  
Faramir drew his hand back-all fingers included-as the creature chewed on the dried meat he'd given it. "It will be gone in a few weeks."  
  
"A few _weeks_ ," Boromir echoed in disbelief.   
  
Faramir stared at him like he'd said something stupid. "Yes? It takes time to heal a bone."  
  
Boromir looked at the creature, which was smacking away at its food but still watching them carefully. Sure enough, its left rear leg was wrapped in something like a splint. If it moved this fast while injured, how quick was it when healed? Boromir sighed. "How do you propose to keep this thing a secret for so long?"  
  
He shrugged. "I've asked for all the attendants and maids to stay clear of my rooms."  
  
"Right, that'll do it," Boromir said sarcastically.   
  
"What do you want me to do? Leave it to die?"  
  
"Yes! It's an animal! Animals die! That is the way of nature, isn't it?"  
  
Faramir huffed, annoyed. "Snares don't exist in nature. And even if the way of nature is for things to die, isn't it the way of man to stop that from happening when possible? Do we leave our sick and injured to their fates ordained by nature?"  
  
"It is not a man," Boromir responded, rubbing at his temple. "It is a wild animal, which will likely find your sleeping body a tempting meal."  
  
"Fortunately, it has no thumbs with which to open doors."   
  
"And when Father finds out about it?" His brother would not see reason, so Boromir had no choice but to resort to this.  
  
"He will not."  
  
It was a weak refutation and it was plain even Faramir thought so. Their father seemed to know everything that went on in all of Gondor, so their own home may as well be made of glass. "Faramir..."  
  
"It will be fine." Faramir said it with a kind of finality that distinctly reminded Boromir of their father. The tone of voice said 'you may continue to argue, but you _will_ fail'. One of his many talents as a captain was knowing when the battle was lost, and so it was here.   
  
"If it kills you, my cries of 'I told you so' will echo forever throughout Rath Dinen," Boromir muttered as he left the room.  
  
His time in the city during Mettare was supposed to be restful. After spending so long on the field of battle, he'd been looking forward to it. Now it was difficult to relax when he knew there was a savage wildcat stalking around his brother's rooms. Maybe it was limping as it did so, but the point still stood. It was a dangerous thing, and for some reason Faramir lost all sense of self-preservation when it came to aiding creatures in need.   
  
He couldn't help but inspect every visible patch of skin for claw or tooth marks each time he passed his brother. But he still seemed in tact, with no obvious injuries. So the creature was sufficiently pacified for now. Boromir prayed it would last.  
  
And of course, it would not. And of course, everything saw fit to implode during the very important, very political, Mettare's Eve meal with their father and the nobles of the city and nearby settlements.   
  
Things had begun well enough. The food was served, and the meal was delightful, and the wine left him with a pleasant warmth in his chest. Normally he preferred ale, but some fool long ago had decided the superior drink wasn't appropriate for such fancy meals. Some of the lords laid out their grievances to the Steward, who gave his usual wise counsel. Boromir felt his stomach flip anxiously any time he saw his father work. For all his prowess in battle, he feared he could never match Denethor's skill for politics. The time would come when he would have to, and he preferred not to think of it. He comforted himself by remembering that at least he'd have Faramir to go to for advice. 

  
The discussions turned to tomorrow's festivals, and that was when things went south. Or rather, when things from the south came around.   
  
There was a shriek from the hall, and the clatter of something hitting the floor. A serving platter, Boromir thought. All eyes went that direction as one of the guards rushed to the aid of the woman who had cried out. "Manwe in the West!" the guard shouted with a start and Boromir felt his throat tighten. His eyes immediately went to Faramir, who seemed frozen in time, eyes unfocused somewhere between the seasoned potatoes and the greens.   
  
The  _duma_ bolted into the dining hall, fear plain in its eyes. It hardly seemed to notice that the guards were just as fearful of it as it was of them. The nobles at the table stood immediately, some putting their chairs between themselves and the skittish beast, others taking steps backwards deeper into the room. Boromir stood too, hand automatically reaching for a pommel that wasn't there.   
  
Only Denethor and Faramir remained seated, the former stone faced and emotionless and the latter clearly ruminating over every possible argument for why he wasn't wrong to bring this creature to the Citadel.   
  
There was a soft noise as the wildcat leapt nimbly upon the table. Boromir could hardly hold in an exasperated laugh at the thing's sudden boldness when food was involved. It sniffed over a plate, found it lacking, and moved on to the potatoes. It seemed to think those were worth perusing. The butter, Boromir supposed.   
  
"Captain Faramir," Denethor said. "I had not been informed that you would be bringing a guest."  
  
Any hope Faramir had of denying he was the reason for the  _duma_ in the dining room was dashed when it moved on to his plate and sat in front of him. It made an odd, chirping noise, as if asking what else was worth eating. Faramir cleared his throat, then said, "May I be excused?"  
  
Denethor sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded. Boromir shot his brother a sympathetic look. Even if he had told Faramir this would end disastrously, that didn't mean he  _wanted_ it to. Faramir stood from the table and gave a slight bow to the shocked nobles at the table before he headed for the hall. Almost as an afterthought, he clicked his tongue, and Fermuig's ears pricked up. It followed after Faramir, glancing warily at the rest of them.   
  
"Well," Boromir said, breaking the tense silence. He spread his hands in offering. "Any interest in dessert?"  
  
One of the lord's scoffed quietly, but no one said anything. Denethor sat, and Boromir could see his nostrils briefly flare with a deep, controlled breath. "My lords, I do apologize for my son's..."  
  
"Exotic tastes," Boromir supplied. Denethor waved a hand.   
  
"What in the hell  _was_ that creature, sir?" one of them asked.   
  
Boromir was ready to respond, for once certain that he was more knowledgeable than his father on a subject-if only for Faramir's explanations. But Denethor said, "A southern wildcat. The men of Harad use them as couriers, as our men sometimes do with birds.  _Chee-tah,_ I believe they call them."  
  
"I have heard they say ' _duma'_ ," Boromir put in, trying to contribute something at least.   
  
Denethor nodded. "In Far Harad, yes." He wanted badly to rub his eyes, Boromir could tell, but he wouldn't in the company of his court. Something about the cues of body language and all manner of incessant complications and subtleties which Boromir would never be able to keep straight. "And what, pray tell, is your brother doing with one in the Citadel?" There was an almost pleading note in his gaze, as if to say,  _tell me it is tactical and not merely one of his latest scholarly undertakings.  
  
_ Boromir cleared his throat after taking another sip of wine, trying to stall so as to think of the most flattering way to frame it. "He is planning to use it to send false messages to the Haradrim. To perhaps plan an ambush."  
  
Denethor did not look convinced, but the other lords did, and so he would accept it as an explanation in front of them. One of the nobles said, "He knows how to use the language of the men of the South?"   
  
Perhaps it had been a bit of a bold lie on his part, but boldness was what he was known for, after all. "Yes."  
  
"Quite a feat!"   
  
"Now if only he could learn to properly pen his beasts," Denethor said dryly before returning to his meal, which had been fortunate enough to miss the scrutiny of a hungry  _duma_ . The conversation turned then to the war in the East, and the  _duma,_ while not forgotten, was at least no longer the center of attention.   
  
Faramir did not return that night, so Boromir tried to find him after the meal. Only, their father had beaten him to the punch. The strangest thing about their arguments was that they hardly ever involved raised voices, unlike the rare occasion when Boromir and his father fought. To anyone else, Faramir and Denethor's conversation may have sounded more like a debate in a court of law. But he knew better.   
  
"I do my best to be understanding of your whims, but this is beyond the pale. To endanger the entire court-"  
  
"They were in no danger-"  
  
"That is not the impression they left with."  
  
"The  _duma_ is hardly more ferocious than a dog, and you would not begrudge me one of those."  
  
"So then why do you not shelter one of those instead? Faramir," Denethor said on a sigh. "You are newly named a captain of Rangers, a son of the Steward. More is expected of you, particularly in times of war. It is no longer appropriate for you to play games like this while Sauron himself breathes down our necks."  
  
"Life and death are no game to me, as I know it is not to you."  
  
"It is an animal, Faramir, not a man."  
  
"And so? Why has an animal less right to life than a man?"  
  
Denethor sighed again and Boromir could sympathize. He simply could not understand his brother's insistence that a beast should be treated anything like a person. "So were this-this  _duma_ and a man in a burning building, you would save the  _duma?_ "  
  
"Of course not, but this is nothing so dire. It's unfair to draw such a comparison."  
  
"It is unfair for the lords of our fiefs to be threatened by a wild beast on the eve of one of our most sacred holidays!" Denethor cried in frustration. "What must I  _do_ to get through to you, boy?"  
  
There was the scuffling of boots on stone floors. Boromir could practically picture Faramir shifting his weight. "It is not my intention to harm or embarrass anyone. But I do not have it in my heart to sit by while something suffers and dies and I could do something to help it."  
  
"Then how do you expect to continue to serve your people in war?" Denethor demanded. "Death is a fact of life, Faramir. You have known this since you were five years old."  
  
Boromir flinched and dropped his gaze to his feet. It was, perhaps, a low blow, using their mother's death to make Faramir see reason, but it spoke to their father's desperation that he would even try it. There was silence for a time, and then Faramir said, "So it is."  
  
There was another brief silence before Denethor said, "I will not abide another wild beast in these halls again. Am I understood?"  
  
Faramir sighed. "That is not-"  
  
"Am I understood?" Denethor repeated.   
  
A pause. And then, "Yes, sir."  
  
"As ever, your brother has come up with a splendid tale to pretty up your mess. A lie, but a small one, and so you will use it when you apologize to the lords of our country. You've intercepted the beast and plan to use it to lay a trap for the Haradrim by sending false messages in their tongue. Which you now know well enough to do, of course."  
  
Faramir snorted. " _Ana la atakellem al arabi_ ."  
  
"Faramir..."  
  
"I am listening."  
  
"You had better be. You'd do well to focus your mind on the tasks I set you to, rather than trying to be clever. You are brilliant, Faramir, but you are so  _willful._ Perhaps not so much in your words, and not in ceaseless arguments, but in your actions. And what one does is ever more important than what one says." There was another brief period of silence then, and Boromir bit anxiously at his lip. He'd never been the sort to worry, but conversations between his brother and father often left him with that awful, gnawing feeling in his stomach. It seemed in recent years the only kind words Denethor ever had for Faramir were always tempered with critique and condemnation, and it seemed that Faramir's respect and obedience for their father was usually mere lip service. "You will not bother the lords tomorrow, as they will no doubt be spending time with family. But the day after, I expect to hear from them of your visits. See to it that they only have good things to share."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
With that, their father was gone, and Boromir felt it was safe for him to move in and pick up the pieces. So it had been for many years now. Son would antagonize father, or perhaps vice versa, and brother would make it right. Years past, he believed he could make them understand each other, help bridge this gap between them. But instead it grew ever wider and he found himself stretched so thin that he thought he might split in two. There were times he wanted to tell them both to shut up, and times he wanted to console them until their frustrations were allayed, if that were even possible, and he wondered if all families were this way. He'd never thought to ask anyone else. Who could he say such things to? These were not mere men he spoke of. He was the Captain-General of Gondor's armies, and his father the Ruling Steward, his brother the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. It was more than unwise to give voice to any weaknesses in the ruling house of Gondor, especially in times as dire as these.

So he kept it all to himself, as he had ever done, and he breezed through Faramir's unlocked door as if he hadn't been eavesdropping on everything that'd just taken place here. "I've come to say I told you so."

"I thought you were going to wait to mock me at my graveside," Faramir reminded him. Boromir watched him in a calculated way that was designed to seem entirely uncalculated. Boromir may have been Finduilas' son, but he'd learned well how to be as analytical as his father. And while he wasn't so gifted as Faramir or Adar with their sight that pierced men's hearts, he could read body language as well as anyone else. Faramir was agitated, frustrated, maybe even angry.

"I don't have that sort of time," Boromir said, picking a book off of Faramir's desk. It was written in old Adunaic. Boromir worried sometimes where Faramir's curiosities might take him. Adunaic had been surrendered by Numenor for a reason. Now it was everyone's language, changed and warped by other people, by the passage of time, become the Common tongue that nearly everyone in Arda spoke. What did Faramir need with such a useless thing as the language of their own downfall?

"You have time enough to rifle through my things," Faramir said, taking the book back and returning it to his desk. "What?" he demanded and Boromir felt suddenly as if he hardly knew this man. Even as they'd grown up together, knew each other's secrets, habits, hideouts, lies and tells, he felt sharply the years that had passed and how few days they'd been permitted to spend together. Time was cruel, crueler so in dark days that demanded so much of both of them. What he'd give to be twelve again, with his chief concern being the best spots in the Citadel for a game of hide and seek, or whether there'd be sweets after supper.

"What nothing," Boromir said. "You let a wildcat loose on the council and you thought I wouldn't come to laugh at you about it? Where is the horrid thing anyway?"

Faramir crossed his arms and rested against his desk. Boromir knew it to be empty these days when it used to be scattered with old books and papers full of notes about historical events or strange old poetry. "Fermuig's in my bedroom. Probably asleep, since he ate so well." His boot made a shuffling sound as he scraped it against the floor. "I didn't let him loose. Someone must've left the door ajar when servicing the room, I think."

"Who could've seen that coming?" Boromir wondered dramatically. Faramir was less than amused. He really did care about that stupid thing. Boromir sighed quietly through his nose. "What will you do with it? I don't imagine Adar will let it stay."

"Don't patronize me by pretending you weren't standing in the hall listening to us," Faramir said.

"Patronize you?" Boromir echoed. "I'm trying to leave you with a modicum of dignity and let you explain it instead of presuming."

Faramir winced a bit, plainly ashamed of his outburst. It was quiet for a moment, and Boromir figured that Faramir must be thinking about what to say, so he gave him time. He thought it was better for someone to speak carefully than rashly, so he never made a habit of rushing others, and Faramir had always been painfully thoughtful. "I only wanted to help it. The _duma_ ," Faramir said. "I'd do the same for a bird or a dog or a person."

"That I know," Boromir said in good humor. In war, Faramir was like any other Captain. Confident, assertive, quick to react. But at home, he'd become much like a wild thing himself, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. Exposure was a risk he could hardly afford, so defense was the immediate instinct. React, bare teeth, put out spurs. So what could Boromir do except try to disarm that defense?

"He'd have us throw away everything that makes us human," Faramir said, pointing back out to the corridor. "Compassion or mercy, they're worse than useless to him. They're liabilities."

When had their own father become so estranged as to be relegated to a nameless 'him'? "That is what war demands of us, Faramir," Boromir said sadly. For all his prowess and the glory his battles brought him, he knew that it was true. War was debasing to all parties involved. Men had farther to fall than Orcs, and fall they did, but what options were there? If they were to fall, Boromir would have it be the most spectacular thing ever witnessed.

"Oh I am so sick of this," Faramir muttered, shoving away from his desk to pace his room. Again Boromir thought of a wild thing put in a pen. All good things ground away. Howling creatures crying for relief left over.

"We all are," Boromir told him. "Do you not see that?" He huffed a bit indignantly and looked out the window. "Each day I review our losses. I want to scream. Our people suffer, and they suffer, and no help comes. I know that others have their own battles to fight, but I also know that our battles are the ones that give them the opportunity to even _think_ of their own. We are alone. So there is no noble way to do this. There is no humane way to fight this war. It astounds me that someone as brilliant as you can not see that."

"And it astounds me that someone with a heart as large as yours can not see how this lack of humanity is killing us all," Faramir returned.

"Rather our pride die than our people."

"It is not a matter of pride," Faramir said, and the desperation in his eyes was hard to stand. He wanted something so badly, but Boromir could not give it to him and he hated himself for it. "Pride is nothing. This is..." He waved his hand, searching, failing. "I don't know. Maybe it is a quality that can't be named. I only know that it hurts so much to see it strangled and trampled and spat on, disregarded and forgotten out of some alleged necessity that has never been tested."

"Because failing that test will mean losing everything."

They were both quiet then. Boromir wondered if his brother felt as alone as he did right now. "I'd give anything to end this," Boromir said abruptly. "Not just the war. All of this. I miss you. I miss Ada, and Nana. I miss feeling like I had a family and not another battle to fight."

Faramir looked so stricken that Boromir regretted saying it the second it left his mouth. But then Faramir quickly closed himself off with the same deftness their father had. Finally, he said, "These are the things that we surrender. It hurts so much more to lose people you love when they are still living."

Boromir hated that he was right because what could be done about it? Should they become the high and noble people Faramir wanted and risk the security of the country? Or did they continue with these spiritual sacrifices, these wounds that went unseen, these losses that went untallied, so that they could pretend they were all a bit safer than they would be otherwise? In war there must be glory, because without it, there was left only horror and it was unbearable.

"I am sorry," Faramir told him sadly.

Boromir nodded. "All of us are. But none of us know how to be other than what we are. Maybe that honesty is all we have left, so we can hardly expect it to be given up so easily."

"I'm terrified that when this ends, and if we survive it, we will not be able to unlearn this harshness."

Boromir said nothing, because he feared the same exact thing, and he knew that Faramir knew this. They were silent then, and he wondered at it. As children, there'd been so much to say to each other. Now, Faramir was so guarded, and Boromir so much less certain than he appeared. But still they'd cling to each other in their quiet desperation. What else was there to do? They couldn't speak of fears and anxieties to the people who looked to them to fix theirs. The two of them had no one else so they'd hang on, and on, and on, and pray the other didn't falter first.


End file.
